Psilo stood staring at the Wizard with his mouth wide open. No words could form in his mind to make his mouth move. He was utterly speachless.This was going to be difficult. 'Sure the question was simple enough', Psilo thought, 'Do I make the magic or does the magic make me'? The answer of course was neither of the above, Psilo could understand that much. He had been taught by Surrie, his mentor, that magic flows through every living thing and that we call upon the magic. So the answer would be both, or is it.
Psilo didn't know. He tugged at the collar, hoping it would come free, but the buckle seemed stuck. He even tried to cut it off with his dagger, but the leather was too old and tough to cut. Eventually Psilo gave up. If he were to get this collar off, he would have to find a different way.
All around him, soldiers and mercenaries prepared for battle that would soon come. Sitting on a crate across the yard, a young squire was repairing a torn cloak. A sharp wind blew up the cloak, sending it flying down the courtyard. The squire chased after it.
Psilo smiled as an idea formed.
